Gaming
by Nancy Brooke
Summary: Bored awaiting council in Rivendell, Boromir meets an Elf who gives him challenges he cannot refuse
1. Gaming Challenge

Notes:

This story is based on a blending of the books by J.R.R. Tolkien and the the films by Peter Jackson.  So, please, feel free to imagine Sean Bean in the part of Boromir.  I certainly have.

Where events conflict, as in the taking of Osgiliath, I have favored the books.  (Only Boromir, Faramir and a few others survived, two weeks before B set out for Rivendell).  However, I chose to ignore completely that in Appendix B of the Lord of the Rings, Boromir arrives in Rivendell one day before the Council of Elrond.

The Elf's name is pronounced Nigh-ee-may, with sort of equal stress on the first two syllables.

Great thanks go to the "Encyclopedia of Arda" website; it is an outstanding resource.

Boromir, the First Son and Heir to the Stewardship of Gondor looked about him.  Everywhere the hidden valley of Imladris glowed with the fullness of Autumn.  The very air shone with a clarity he had never before witnessed, giving each tree in its chosen raiment of red or gold a particular glory.  Even the fading brown and gray warning of winter seemed luminous here.

It displeased him greatly.

He had been an honored guest in the House of Elrond for nearly five days already, though the first few he had spent recouperating from his long journey North.  And although he had been given a large room, well appointed and richly furnished, he left it as soon as he was able.  Close by he had found a wealth in objects, comforts, and amusements fit to rival even the King's House of Gondor in Minas Tirith, the city in which he had been born and had always lived; the city from which he would some day rule Gondor.

In every banquet room he discovered, every library, every hall he explored he had found Elves – Elves laughing, Elves singing, Elves reading, sporting, working, resting and sometimes just standing around.  And though they always welcomed him, accorded him the respect of his heritage and station and often, even, invited him to join them in whatever past time they were occupied they gave him no ease.

Even the house itself made him uncomfortable with its airy passages, translucent ceilings, and walls that were often more openings than, well, walls.  It quickly drove him outside.  He found he missed the plain and confident stone of Minas Tirith, the square streets and quaried stairs, the orderliness of its seven circles, seven offset gates and crowning white tower; The White Tower of Echthelion named for his forebearer and for which the White City in turn was named, the Tower of Guard of which he was Captain.

Boromir found himself muttering the passwords to each gate and circle like a charm as he left Elrond's house and searched out Imladris itself one morning.  He had been loitering about the house too long waiting a summons from Elrond to discuss his mission, his reason for being there.  It was a dream had guided him and like a dream it seemed.  Rivendell he soon discovered was well named:  countless small vales, hollows and leas were to be found within easy distance of the Last Homely House, many with their own sparkling brook or stream chattering secretly to itself as it sought the Bruinen.  He could only imagine it was all even more lovely even than glory that had once been Ithilien, the wooded land of which, as a youth, he had learned every tree though it had long before been spoiled by the Enemy.

In one particularly broad vale Boromir came across a group of Elves contesting at archery.  Many were the dark-haired, silver-clad folk of Rivendell but among them were other Elves, blond and taller, dressed mostly in habits of green and brown.  They all laughed as they sported, teased and called to each other and for some reason their merriment caught Boromir's fancy finally, and he stopped nearby to observe them and their game.

The joy and comraderie with which they vied belied a fearsome competition, the Man soon realized.  Two teams of archers took turns shooting at a group of hoops which swung from a tree some 40 paces distant.  The hoops were of varying size and much decorated; some hung closer and some farther but all were rocked to and fro by the prevalent breeze.  Although Boromir watched for some time the rules and scoring eluded him though he took careful note of the cheers and laughs or sounds of dissapointment coming from both teams.

It was clear to see who was winning, however.  One Elf, in particular, seemed to receive the most cheers and accolades.  The Elf was small, among Elves, but lithe and wore the dark hair and silver-green tunic preferred by the dwellers of Rivendell.  Boromir found himself admiring the Elf's clear face, deep gray eyes, and long legs and then chastised himself when the Steward's son realized he could not be sure of the archer's gender.  Indeed, Boromir had often found it difficult during his stay to tell men from women in the House of Elrond, a fact which only added to his discomfort.

There was a burst of loud applause when the Archer succeeded in launching an arrow cleanly through a remarkably small hoop striped orange and yellow.  As all the players joined in the celebration Boromir surmised that the game must have been won, although he could not have told how or at what score.

Still he stayed leaning against his tree at the edge of the greensward as the victorious Elf was approached by a competitor in green and brown.

"Your skill with a bow is formidable, Naimë.  I would not have said one of our kin of Imladris could best an archer of Mirkwood had I not seen it here today."

Far from taking offence at this reverse compliment, the victor only smiled more broadly and gave a small bow as the others gathered around.

"Indeed," spoke a teammate; "I hardly know why we let her play as she always wins."  
  


"You hope, Thirnen, that my skill will rub off on you as I continue to hope you will become more of a challenge."

As the group laughed freely Boromir, from beneath his tree, noted that Elves seemed to delight as much in teasing and good-natured insults as in more fair conduct.  Perhaps, he thought, there was something to like about them after all.

"Shall we have another game?"  The woodland Elf of Mirkwood adressed the victor.

"By all means" she replied and then, much to his surprise, waved a graceful hand in Boromir's own direction.  "But look.  Nearby I see our gallant visitor from the South.  Perhaps he will join us and we will see what of archery or strategy can be learned from him for I hear he is a mighty warrior."  Then, as the others stood about loosely, the fair archer approached Boromir.  "What say you, Man of Gondor, will you come and play with us?"

The Steward's son straightened politely but sought to wave the archer off even as she neared.  "Nay, I will not, though I must thank you for the invitation."

"Have you found a surfeit of rest and amusement in the House of Elrond that you refuse our game?"

Boromir watched with some irritation as the Elf stopped scant feet from him and planted her bow in the grass.  He could see her ever-present laughter waiting patiently behind a bright smile and her dark-gray eyes glittered with the light that filtered through the leaves over their heads.  Boromir found they reminded him of the river Anduin at dawn off the Quay of Osgiliath.  Then memory of its destruction burst upon his mind's eye and for a moment wiped out all other visions.

"I came here seeking neither rest nor amusement," he replied brusquely.  "I have little skill with the bow and, I must confess, the rules of your game elude me."  

But the fair Archer would not be discouraged.  "But you are unhappy here, that much is plain."

At heart, Boromir bristled her forthrightness.  "I am idle, and idleness always makes me unhappy," he growled.

But she only laughed in reply, a gentle rippling laugh like wine uncorked.  "Come, Son of Gondor; there are many things in Rivendell to occupy the mind or body of any willing to seek them out.  Let me be your guide.  I have never before met a Man from the South, nor many Men at all, and I would be glad of the opportunity to know you better.  Will you meet me on the morrow?  If I can find nothing to amuse you before noon you may discharge me and I will trouble you no longer.  What do you say?"

Despite his black and restless mood, Boromir found himself rising to the challenge.  Waiting for Elrond's summons had been an irritation to him; perhaps he needed a change of strategy.

"I will.  But who shall I ask for about the house tomorrow?"  
  
The Elf laughed and pulled her bow from the earth.  "There is no need.  I will come to you.  And I am called Naimë, which is 'like to a little bird' in your tongue, though I like mine much better."

With another laugh she turned and gracefully loped back to the players waiting for her.  Boromir did not stay to see the next match but stepped backwards until the tree he had been leaning on obscured his view.  Then he turned and pointed his boots back towards the House of Elrond, a curious smile teasing the corners of his mouth.


	2. Gaming Play

The morrow dawned fair and warm.  Boromir had little time to wonder what his new Elf companion might have in store for him before his musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

It was Naimë, as promised, smiling brightly and, as Boromir was learning, characteristically.  Trays and bowls of food covered every inch of her open arms and seemed to drape across her chest even as an earthenware pitcher dangled from one dainty pinky finger.  She nodded to the Steward's son in greeting and then brushed past him as he moved to divest her of her burden.  Almost before he had turned around she was laying her provisions out on a small table he had all but ignored on his balcony.

There was fresh fruit, small oatmeal-like cakes, soft butter and jams along with a sweet yellow bread – thick and spongy at the center – heavily flavored with honey and spices.  The pitcher turned out to contain a brewed herbal drink softened with milk that Boromir found palatable and warming.  After a short period of much eating and very little talk the Elf maid and the Man both pushed back their chairs and stretched out their feet in the morning sunshine.

"So," Naimë was the first to break the satisfied silence.  "What shall it be?  I can only think that your unhappiness here must spring from your ignorance of our ways and our valley since all others who visit or dwell here are joyful.  So I have planned an extensive tour to broaden your view.  But it is you must choose the starting point, take the first step, as it were.  What will you have?  Indoors or Out?  Choose well, Mortal, for my continued company depends on your satisfaction and I would see more of you."

The ancient pride of the Steward's son rose up in Boromir at the Elf's imperious tone even as its owner leaned abruptly forward in his chair.  But there he was met by a mischievous smile dancing over Naimë's delicate lips, forcing them from a mock frown and back to her usual look of merriment.  Boromir could not help but smile himself, then and sat back to consider his invitation more closely.

"Indoors, I believe, Elf.  We will leave outside for the full warmth and blossom of the day.  What say you?"

Across the table the Naimë smiled happily and nodded her head as she rose from the table.  "I would not have known a Man could have such fair words and well-measured thoughts.  You see, My Lord?  You are teaching me something already!"

*****************

Boromir felt his spirits begin to lift even as he followed Naimë out his door, along many corridors, through the House of Elrond and beyond.  He was finding the company of this Elf to be unlike any other; since crossing the Gap of Rohan and leaving familiar country – could it have been over two months before? – he had felt as though he were walking among legends and dreams.  At her side he was beginning to get his footing again.

And, perhaps more important, thanks to her he was no longer waiting about Rivendell for Elrond's summons like an errand boy in an antechamber.  The farther Naimë led him away from his room the more his nobility return.  His back straightened, his head rose, his stride lengthened.  Still he had to work to keep up as Naimë could barely contain the skip in her walk as she went before him, the diffuse light of morning shining along the long coiled braid of her black hair.  

Before long the Elf maid had brought Boromir to what he could only guess was the very bottom of the gorge that was Rivendell.  There, along the banks of the Loudwater they came upon several clusters of buildings.  Some were low, some tall but all clearly of Elvish design and purpose.  Through their open doors Boromir glimpsed Elves hard at work, though to him their work appeared very similar to their play as they joked and argued good-naturedly amongst themselves.  His spirits fell somewhat as he thought "what is there here I have not already seen?"

Naimë recaptured his attention with a broad gesture.  "Here dwell and work many of our finest artisans:  glassblowers, potters, weavers, gold- and silversmiths as well as many others.  Here we create all we need to live amongst ourselves."  Indeed, along the Loudwater Boromir saw representatives of all the trades he had ever known from Minas Tirith or the Pelennor surrounding.

He raised a brow in surprise.  "I was not aware Elves performed labor at occupation or engaged in commerce of any kind."

"No," Naimë's answering laugh echoed off the nearby buildings.  "Here we do as we please!  Some take pleasure in exercising their minds, some in working their hands in steel or clay.  Is it not so where you come from?"

Despite his good mood Boromir could not stop a darkening frown.  "Where I come from we do as we must," he growled.  The thought went unfinished that fulfilling his duty was all that stood between their pleasure and the Enemy's.

But Naimë's hand alighting gently on his arm roused him again.  "Here is our destination." She pointed upland to another grouping of workshops.  "Come."  She spoke calmingly, and when Boromir looked up he was surprised to see concern in her dark-gray eyes.  But a bright smile quickly replaced it as she began to move away, gesturing to him.  "Here I believe you will see much to delight you."

The Elf maid turned and led Boromir upland to a group of buildings somewhat larger and darker than the rest.  Black smoke pushed its way out of their chimneys over windows set high in walls that otherwise had no feature.  There strange sounds came to Boromir's ears – the ring of hammers, breath of bellows, whine of sharpening wheels – sounds of industry almost forgotten in the more than 100 days he had passed since leaving Gondor.

Without announcement his Elf guide pushed upon a heavy oaken door and gestured for Boromir to proceed.  Inside, the warrior recognized a forge, an armory even, though it was unlike any he had ever seen.  The light filtered in from above to illuminate an airy and orderly workspace and reflected, to Boromir's wonder, off countless pieces of burnished arms and armor.  As he stepped in his eyes landed on a long curved blade that dangled near the door; but they couldn't rest there.  In a few short moments he glutted his sight – in each blade he thought the maker to have found the perfect marriage of artistry and deadly strength until he beheld the next.  He felt rather than saw Naimë slip past him, her feather-like hand barely brushing his back.

She called out:  "A-Ho, Master Smithy!  I have brought to you a Master of the Sword – a great warrior and leader of armies from the South come to test your skill at arms-making.  What say you?  Will you let him test your wares?"

Out of the shadowy depths previously unnoticed came an Elf.  Though it was obvious to Boromir he could not have said how he knew the Elf was old even among Elves.  There was something in his eyes, his delicately lined face, his very bearing that bespoke of years spent on this earth.  He stared at Boromir for a moment with unapologetic hostility, resentful that the contemplative solitude he guarded so jealously had been disturbed.  Then he turned his back and nodded to Naimë.

"Archer."

  
"Swordsmith."

"What is it?  Why do you bring this man to me?"  Boromir heard undisguised bitterness in the Elf's voice, almost spitting out his race.  "Men long ago 'outgrew' our teachings and ceased to be interested in our work."

But his only answer was Naimë's characteristic smile, now tinged with a shade of fond indulgence.  So the aged Elf turned directly to Boromir.

"You are the first of your countrymen we have seen here in many hundreds of years.  Are you in need of a new blade?  Well, you could hardly find better in Middle Earth.  Is that what has brought you here to Rivendell?   Hmmm?"

Boromir felt his ever-present pride begin to rise like hackles on a hunting dog.  Did everyone know his name and his business?  But now Naimë stepped forward, winking one moonstone eye to the Steward's Son.  "He is in need of an education, Megilin.  I encountered him yesterday as we played at _Leikkiä_ and now he thinks that games are all we Elves concern ourselves with."  Nodding to Boromir complicitously she took a seat and withdrew it demurely to one side of the forge, leaving him alone to face the smithy.

  
"Games!  Games … "  Frowning angrily Megilin the Swordsmith reached down a particularly deadly looking piece, enscored with the image of a dragon riding down its blade that glowed red in the firelight.  "Would you use this for a game?"

Boromir, recognizing an invitation, stepped forward and took the sword from the Elf's long hand.  It was surprisingly heavy, but finely balanced and seemed almost to vibrate as if waiting impatiently in his hand.  He stepped back and swung the blade a few times and then held it out again to marvel at its craftsmanship.

"No, indeed!" he almost crowed.  "This I would use to carve a path to the Black Tower from the gates of Minas Tirith itself though all the hordes of Mordor stood about me.  It is a fine blade!"

"Fine!  'Fine', he says, and such bold words."  Frowning, but not totally displeased, the old Elf turned and made his way to the back of the room muttering to himself.  "Such brave words!  He forgets, the young manling, that others here may have seen such a host.  No, Steward's Son," he turned back to his guest.  "For such a battle you would not use that, you would use this!"

So saying he produced yet another blade, more finely carved and fashioned than the last for Boromir to try.  Thus through the morning the swordsmith brought out blade after blade, each one eagerly and tested by the soldier until they came to sit, Megilin spinning stories, telling of each blade's making, for whom it was wrought, the meaning of each symbol, leaf and whorl, Boromir listening intently.

Thus the morning passed quickly and unnoticed.  Through it all Naimë sat back listening, her eyes sparkling with the firelight of the forge and the risen flame of Boromir's happiness; a flame of spirit she seen in him from the first; a smoldering flame left dangerously unattended.  But now it glowed brightly and steadily and Naimë was pleased to share in its warmth.

Too soon, it seemed to Boromir, his Elven guide gently extracted him from the forge and the old smith's company to continue their tour.

As they left the forge the Elf Maid addressed him.  "Well, my friend, I think we have succeeded in feeding your spirit somewhat.  What say you we feed our bodies?  Are you not hungry after so much talk and good company?  I myself am starving and I have only watched and listened this whole morning.  Come!"

*****************

Naimë brought Boromir out of the valley and back into the depths of the last Homely House.  Here the smell of fresh-baked bread, roasting meats and sweet things assaulted him and the soldier found his stomach rumbling and his mouth watering most uncontrollably.  Naimë guided him to a small refectory table standing empty in a sun-drenched alcove not far from the kitchens and left to gather their lunch.

When she returned the pair eagerly tucked into a tray full of cold roast chicken, cider, pears and a fresh loaf of the honeyed bread they had so enjoyed with breakfast.  Between mouthfuls Boromir grunted happily.

"Naimë, you almost make me feel young again.  When I was small, my brother Faramir and I roamed our city freely, but most often spent our mealtimes tucked into a corner of the great kitchen of the King's House not unlike this.  The cooks and servants spoiled us most satisfactorily."

His remembrance made Naimë laugh becomingly.  "This place is dear to me;  I am pleased you share my feelings.  But I am surprised that you were allowed such freedom as a youth, even in your own city.  I would have thought the Steward's Sons too precious to go unguarded."

Then a shadow fell over Boromir's fair countenance and reigned in his speech grown full and easy with the morning's company.  "It was the year my mother fell ill; the attentions of many were elsewhere.  She died at high summer and my father grieved for her most sorely.  Faramir and I …" he paused to choose his words; "preferred to absent ourselves in those long days."

For a long moment silence settled in between them, the Elf and the Man.  Then Naimë spoke quietly.

"Indeed, even in Rivendell is the beauty and kindness of the Fair Finduilas remembered.  The loss of such a soul is often felt far beyond its dwelling."

Her words brought Boromir back from the world outside their window to find Naimë's eyes shining.  He reached across and covered her small hand with his for a moment, and then withdrew it, surprised at himself.

But in another moment the Elf-maid's customary lightheartedness returned.  She leaned forward with a teasing smirk.  "And what of your brother, Faramir?  Into what manner of man has that errant youth grown?"

Boromir grunted again, and shared her smile.   "My little brother?"  Then he sat back and Naimë was pleased to see pride growing in Boromir's mind's eye.  "He is a valiant leader and much admired by his men, and by rights he should be sitting here instead of me.  But Faramir's heart lies more in books and old scrolls than in steel and hard living.  He has oft been a pupil of Mithrandir the Wizard, much to my father's displeasure.  Sadly, there is much enmity between them."  Then a thought brought him forward again, a proud and cocky smile teasing his lips.  "I do not think it is his fate to rule Gondor!"

"O Boromir!"  Laughing, Naimë reached across the narrow table and tapped her companion's forehead with a warm and gentle finger.  "Such sensitivity!  Such prescience!  You have been too long among Elves, my friend!  I feel we must leave this place at once!"

*****************

After dispensing with the detritus of their meal Naimë brought Boromir to the stables of Rivendell, selected a mount for him and the two spent the afternoon exploring the slopes of the Misty Mountains away from Rivendell and Elven kind.  They contentedly kept the warm sun, sharp air and clear day only to themselves.

But before long Boromir's gentle mood began to give way.  Even the rocky slope of the Misty Mountains near Rivendell had an orderliness that Boromir found disquieting.  Over frequently he and Naimë would happen on a diminutive glade or patch of wild flowers which bespoke the meddling hand of the Elves had been at work.  As they continued to ride Boromir thought more and more of Mount Mindolluin and the White Mountains of his homeland.  Their treacherous scree, sudden storms and barren rock faces showed the had had their own way in the world for many an age.   Boromir found he missed them acutely.

Before long he suggested to Naimë that they turn back, and when they returned the sun had set and lamps were being lit in the many halls and chambers of Rivendell.

Still, as they walked the halls together back to his room Boromir found he was well and truly tired for the first time since his arrival and he looked forward to a quiet, simple meal, perhaps even a bath.  He suspsected he would sleep well and uninterrupted for the first time since leaving Minas Tirith.

When they reached his door Naimë turned to address him.

"Well, My Lord, have you enjoyed your day?"

Boromir inclined his head in gratitude.  "Yes, Naimë, I thank you I have."

"Then will you permit me to attend you again tomorrow?  We have put your body at ease, I think.  Now it is time we exercised your mind, and to that end I have planned several indoor pursuits."

  
"Indoor?"

And Naimë gave one last trilling laugh.  "Yes"  She lifted her hand toward his balcony and the sky outside. Boromir's eyes followed to see stars just beginning to show.

"Tomorrow it is going to rain!"


	3. Gaming Check

As Naimë had promised Boromir woke to find Rivendell enjoying a light but drenching rainfall.  It alighted on the leaves and grass almost lovingly and, as he stretched languorously in his bed, the Man begrudgingly reflected on its beauty.  It was an unfamiliar sensation for the Captain of the Guard of Minas Tirith to wake at his leisure and have no plan for the day, but Boromir resolved to enjoy it, to see it as a gift from his Elven benefactress.  He stretched again, the crisp warm sheets and light blanket sliding across his well muscled chest.  Then he stirred as the thought occurred to him she might arrive to find him naked and unprepared.  And so he rose to wash and dress, his thoughts wending idly about his companion and new found friend.

The gentle mood Naimë had created in him had banished the irritated restlessness and proud effrontery that had festered in Boromir from boredom and idleness.  So much so that last night he had left his quarters again after a quiet and satisfying meal to see what new amusement Elrond's house might hold for him.  Perhaps at the back of his mind was the idea he might find her again, wile the evening hours by her side, satisfy a growing curiosity as to how her deep gray eyes might look in moon- and starlight.  What he had found had been something quite different.

The memory of that disturbing encounter had only a moment to chill his spirit before a gentle knock was heard at his door.  It was Naimë, coming as if fashioned from his thoughts, arms laden with food and drink in an echo of the day before.

Again they shared his small balcony table, out of reach of the whispering rain, and their memories of the previous day holding each one up to the other and laughing at the comparison.  Before long they rose, and Elf maid and Man were once again out the door and traversing the corridors of Rivendell.

But this time Naimë led Boromir to a place he had already explored and rejected.  The unmistakable smell of moldy leather and aged parchment came to the Man's nose as they approached a pair of arched doors made of Beachwood and bound with silver; a smell that had sent him back down this corridor and away once before.  He halted.  Only a moment ahead, Naimë pivoted gracefully to face him, a question on her angular Elven face.

She saw in a moment that shadows had returned to Boromir's brow and darkened his gray-green eyes.

"Naimë, do you mean to take me to a library?"

"I do, my Lord.  Does that displease you?"  Naimë cocked her head to one side; jeweled pins twinkling like stars in the fall of her black hair.

Boromir gave a short bark of a laugh.  "Perhaps after our conversation yesterday it is my brother Faramir you more desire for companion.  He is the reader, not I.  My skill is with steel and strength, not scroll and tome."  He made as if to turn on his heels but Naimë darted forward a step to stop him.

"But, you can read, can't you?"

Boromir drew himself up to his full height, only few inches greater than hers, and inclined his honeyed head to stare down into her eyes, now sparkling with challenge.  Still he growled at her: 

"Take a care, Maid, I am Boromir son of Denethor, Steward's Son of Gondor and Captain of the White Tower, not an ignorant errand boy."  He knew she was goading him, and Boromir cursed his own fiery temper as he heard his words resound haughtily in Elvish archways; still he could not bank it.

But the Elf maid was not daunted.  She moved still closer, her lips now tugging upward.  "Of this I am assured, but can you read?"

Boromir narrowed his eyes and folded his arms.  She was so close, he could almost feel the warmth of her body emanating through the silver tunic that draped her body.  He found it hard to frown at her so near. 

But his new friend only laughed at his display, and in her laughter Boromir heard fondness and understanding.  She laid a gentle hand on his folded arm and spoke mildly.

"Still you do not trust me, Boromir?  Did I lead you false yesterday?  Are you not now more at ease here among Elven folk after our time together?  Come.  I believe there is beyond these doors that which will interest you greatly."  She turned so abruptly her midnight locks brushed his chest as she tossed a last challenge over her shoulder and reached for the entrance.  "Will you admit defeat before you have even seen the enemy?  I would not have believed it of you, Soldier of Gondor."

*****************

Inside they found a large table in an out-of-the-way corner, well lit by a window.  Somewhat to Boromir's dismay it was already covered with beribboned scrolls and large volumes bound in leather and precious metals.  The rapport between them somewhat restored, Naimë flopped down into a large, cushioned chair obviously meant for long spells of reading and study.  She playfully rocked it back onto two feet as her mortal companion began to investigate the table.

Frowning he untied one scroll, and then another, and then another.  Then he turned to the books: each one was covered in the flowing script of the Elves, more beautiful than anything he had yet beheld on parchment and completely impenetrable.

He let the last close noisily.  "These are in Elvish!"

With a laugh Naimë's chair clacked to the floor.  "Of course they are!"

Suddenly a hissing like flustered geese met their ears as unseen Elven folk all about voiced their disturbance.

Boromir's mouth fell open in surprise but closed again in a complicitous smile when he saw Naimë's eyes sparkling and her delicate hands fight to smother her ever-present laughter.  She looked to him like a mischievous child until she rose from her seat and came to stand by him.

The Elf Maid opened one of the rejected scrolls, her voice low and rippling.  "They are written in Elvish as they were written by Elves!  Here, Soldier of Gondor, are many accounts of battles fought long ago and rarely recounted in the histories of Men.  It was my hope that I could read them to you and you would explain them to me for, I must confess, the art of warfare is one that I do not well understand."

So saying she gestured to Boromir to take the chair she had left, wagging her finger marmishly at him when he began to rock it back in roguish imitation of her.

So they spent the morning, Naimë often perched on a corner of the library table, reading quietly to Boromir of long-ago battles between Elves and the foes of Middle Earth.  She was well pleased; the librarians had fulfilled her requests to them beyond her hopes – here also they found tales of the founding of Gondor and Arnor filled with the brave deeds of Men, Men to whom Boromir could claim proud kinship.  As the morning wore on, she watched with satisfaction as the dark clouds thinned and passed away from his brow and, like sun following storm, light shone in his gray-green eyes.  After a time the soldier abandoned his seat to pace about as he listened, or illustrate with broad gestures, maps and diagrams the maneuvers and strategy of various armies and skirmishes.  Often, Elf and Man had to school their spirits, less they disturb the other readers hidden about them.

Late afternoon found them still in the library, the table and floor now littered with opened scrolls, the stubs of candles, empty cups and plates.  Naimë was just finishing an account of a battle which had Boromir pacing as it teased his brain with familiarity.

At last he let out a short bark of a laugh in discovery.

"The children of Gondor play a game based on this battle!"

"Do they?"  He watched in wonder and amusement as Naimë, sitting on the table, clapped her hands all but silently, pulled her knees up to her chest and kicked her feet in delight.  "Will you show me?"

"All right.  But be warned,"  Boromir paused in his efforts to create a game board and find counters from what lay about them;  "it is deceptively simple in appearance!"

The Elf countered good naturedly, turning the board about so that the crockery pieces faced her and the eating utensils were before Boromir.

With a wink she teased him.  "I think perhaps you should be silver and I should be clay, my Lord of Gondor!"

Sitting happily on the table in the fading light (as each might have done in younger days) they began.  Each taking turns placing pieces on the board and then moving them along drawn lines to surround and capture their opponent's counters.  The first game fell quickly to Boromir, and the second, but each successive match grew longer with Naimë's growing understanding.  Boromir soon found that archery was not all could arouse her competitive nature.

As they sat, deep in thought, seeking to divine the other's strategy the mortal Man worried a fresh cut on his thumb.  With Naimë puzzling thoughtfully over her next play, he cautiously broached a subject that had been growing in his mind since breakfast.

"Naimë, last night, after dinner, I wondered into a part of the house I had not seen before."

"Hmmm?"  The Elf did not look up but continued to consider the board.  She took a breath.  "Sometimes I think our feet only take us where we are when we are ready to go there."  Then she made her move and looked up.  "What did you see?

Boromir reached for a fork and removed one of Naimë's mugs from the board.  "There was a painting of Isildur cleaving the ring from Sauron's hand, and nearby an altar-like statue holding the shards of Narsil itself."

Naimë frowned at the game, and her loss of a man.  "Yes.  I know that hall.  You were near the heart of the house itself."  She made another move, a plate.

Boromir pondered these words, as he countered.  "There was a man there, reading."

"A Man?"  Naimë's hand darted to the board; she quickly shifted another cup and smugly removed a knife.  
  
Boromir slid another fork closer to her.  "The first I've seen since I arrived."

Now engrossed in the competition the Elven maid gave no response.

Boromir continued.  "He was dark-haired and blue-eyed like a man of Gondor but his raiment showed no device or insignia.  He seemed well at ease here.  I thought you might know his country and his name.  Since everyone seems to know everything that goes on in this house," he added, under his breath.

Then she looked up.  "Did he not tell you himself?"  Holding his gaze she surrounded one of his pieces and removed it from the parchment board.

"Only that he was friend to Gandalf the Grey."  Boromir chose a spoon and advanced again.

Naimë countered with a saucer and removed another of Boromir's pieces.  Then the Elf sat back leaning on her hands.  She took a deep breath before answering – "Indeed he is.  They have traveled many leagues together and over many years.  Here in Imladris he is known as Estel, and Elessar, for he is an Elf-friend of long standing and often his way leads him here.  Though he is known by many names I am told that in the North he goes by "Strider," and it is from the North he comes most often.  But Country he has none.  He is a Ranger."

"A Ranger!"  Boromir exclaimed in surprise.  "Even in the South we know of them:   the strange wanderers of the Northern Wildes."  Then he moved again, eliminating a piece of crockery.  Now there were only a few pieces left to each of them.

" 'Not all those who wander are lost' it is often said in Imladris of late," Naimë replied with a secretive smile, studying the board.  "Indeed, he is strange! but he is also trustworthy.  I am sorry he was not more open to you.  There is much you might learn from one another."  Suddenly a smile broke brightly on her face.  "Ah! now I see it!"  Like a striking bird her hand darted forward and removed another utensil leaving Boromir with only one.  She had won the game.

Boromir frowned in surprise, and then laughed good-naturedly, the subject of his strange encounter momentarily forgotten.  A true leader, he was pleased his pupil had so quickly surpassed him.  He held out his hand to congratulate the victor, and was momentarily surprised at its warmth and softness inside his so large and rough.  It was the second time he had touched her.

*****************

As they returned to Boromir's quarters that evening he was surprised to find a young Elf standing stock still and straight beside his door.  Before he could assume any meaning to the Elf's presence, Naimë hailed him.

"Aiya!Greetings, Quentir.  What do you here?"  
  
The young elf pivoted and bowed stiffly from the waist.  "I await the Lord Boromir."  He bowed more deeply to the Lord of Gondor.  "His presence is requested by Lord Elrond at a feast this evening in the Great Hall and to sit at the Master's Table."

His courtier manners came back to Boromir like a familiar cloak.  "I thank you, Quentir.  Please tell Master Elrond I will attend."

Quentir bowed again and, his duty discharged, smiled at Naimë before hurrying away down the corridor.

Now the Elf Maid turned to the Man.  "At last.  The summons you have waited for has come."

But the soldier would make no such assumption.  "It is an invitation to feast, Naimë, not to consultation.  Still, it is nice to be remembered," he added wryly, returning her ever-present smile.  "Will you also attend?  I will look for you."

"You may look but it is a rare evening when I am invited to dine at Elrond's table!"  Naimë laughed gently.  "Still, I must eat and I am always happy in your company.  Mayhap we will meet."  She held his gaze then for a long moment, her gray eyes shining even in the fading light.  When she spoke again it was without mirth or mockery, her eyes remaining on his and wide.  "But I doubt we shall see each other for some time."

She bowed her head for the space of a breath and then departed, leaving Boromir to wonder at her words.


	4. Gaming Mate

As Naimë had predicted Boromir did not set eyes on her again for some time.  For on the day following the feast he was called to Council with Elrond, as were many fair folk and strange.  And while he was gratified at last to learn the meaning of the riddle that had brought him to Rivendell, he found his purpose subsumed in that of the quest and it disturbed the Captain of Gondor to be just one more player challenged by their common Enemy to a game none could foresee an end to.  More troubling, the presence of The Ring wore on him.

The next days were spent largely in the company of his eight new companions as they prepared for the journey South – studying maps, gathering provisions, they even began taking their meals together.  He, himself, took charge of their weaponry and spent a final afternoon in the presence of old Megilin as the swordsmith put a new edge on his blade, the Dwarf's axe and the swords of the Halflings.  And though it pleased him to be occupied and engaged in an endeavor of import, Boromir missed the idle hours he had spent with Naimë waiting for such a time to come.

As Boromir climbed back to Elrond's House that last afternoon it all appeared so different to him.  Now, even the magic of the Elves could no longer delay the winter and signs of its coming were everywhere.  Still, Boromir found the land beautiful to his eye and his thoughts wandered again to the Elven Maid who had made such a vision possible.

In recent days he had thought of Naimë often, wishing for someone with whom he might discuss the many new things he had encountered, or someone with whom he might be silent for a time.  At first, feeling thwarted at the Council of Elrond his ever-ready anger had turned on her:  she had kept him isolated and sequestered – he had not seen the representatives of other races arriving, he had not been prepared for their presence in Rivendell.  Then it came to him that if it had been some kind of trap, it was one he would willingly walk into again.

On the evening before their departure he dined with the other members of the Fellowship and then took his leave intending to spend a last night in comfort and alone.  As was his habit on the eve of a mission the Soldier of Gondor expected to lie wakeful in his bed rehearsing variables and eventualities in an effort to be prepared for any outcome.

But on this night Boromir made an exception.

For in his quarters when he arrived was Naimë, awaiting him.  She stood at the railing by the little balcony table so transformed from her everyday appearance that the sight halted Boromir at his door.

The moon- and starlight shone blue and silver on her hair as it cascaded down her back unbound by pins or ornament.  Instead of her usual formless tunic she wore a long slender dress of deepest midnight blue, and when she turned Boromir could see the low neck was adorned with seven shimmering stars.  As his gaze flowed down her form it seemed to him that the stars, too, fell and merged into a pattern of white leaves adorning her skirts.

He stepped noiselessly forward and came to meet her, raising a hand lightly to one open sleeve.  

"The symbols of my city."

Naimë nodded, her eyes like star sapphires mirroring the night sky.  "I wear them to honor you, Boromir son of Denethor, on our last night together."

The Elf Maid gestured to the table and there Boromir saw she had placed a tall ewer and two goblets.

"This is Míruvórë, our Wine of Farewell," she explained, handing him a cup.  The sparkling draught looked as light and clear as water to Boromir's eyes but a fragrance soft as summer emanated from it.  Naimë teasingly echoed his warning from days before:  "Be warned, it is deceptively simple in appearance!"

Then she raised her cup into the moonlight falling between them.

"I come to say 'Namárië', Man of the South.  Farewell; always in memory will I treasure the short time we have had together."

Boromir bowed his head, but found no words as they drank together.  The míruvórë sparkled over his tongue like the finest mead, like starlight itself distilled.  He drained the cup and replaced it on the table.

Then boldly he stepped forward.  "Naimë, I fear that when this quest is over and I see the White City again I will have the ruling of it.  But know our gates, our doors … my door, will always be open to you."

Softly she turned away to face the night.  "Alas, Boromir, I will never make the Southward journey.  My path lies elsewhere.  Soon, I, too, will leave Imladris."

  
Boromir's heart leapt inexplicably.  Leaving?

She turned back, then, and gazed deeply into his gray-green eyes, seeing he did not understand.

"Yes, we are all leaving."  Gently, Naimë traced the side of Boromir's face with a long finger.  "The time of the Elves is over.  Soon we will take the Great East Road through the lands of the Periannath to the Gray Havens.  And so to our ships and on to Valinor, our true home.  We can do little more here and power is waning.  But I, for one, will be sorry to leave.  I fear my heart will be heavy on that last journey for Middle Earth is dear to me and fair, though there is much of it I have not seen.

"I should have liked to see your city, Boromir, Steward's Son of Gondor."  So saying Naimë turned again to the night and gazed out over the valley as if her Elven eyes could see that far.  "I hear that in the Tower of Guard you have built your homes from the shoulders of mighty Mount Mindolluin itself, even as we have fashioned ours from the trees and rivers here in Imladris, and that the morning son reflected on the White Tower of Ecthelion surpasses in beauty even an Elf's ability to tell of it."

Moved by her words Boromir stepped behind her and impulsively framed her tapering waist.  "That is so."

Turning suddenly in the circle of his hands Naimë gazed up into his proud face and spoke low:  "I should have liked to see it, to have seen it through your eyes;" her soft hand passed across his brow; "wondered the streets and halls of Minas Tirith;" the other came to match its mate and frame his strong face; "at your side."

Then as she lifted her face to his Boromir saw her lips part and in them read invitation.  He bent and met her rising, covered her mouth with his own.  

Her lips were like the finest silk, though her kiss was firm with purpose before it melded against his.  Boromir drank her in as he had the wine, quickly accepting the gift being given.  In the back of his mind the soldier couldn't help but consider that he was kissing an Elf – someone not of his race – but the Man's lips, his hands, his body felt only her passion, her lithe form yielding to his and, when she opened her mouth to him, something indescribably rich and warm mingling with the míruvórë.

With that first taste their desire quickly escalated.  Boromir's hands roamed Naimé's back and shoulders, her arms as they reached for him, her long neck, the fall of her waist – he refused to leave any part of her unknown.  And when their passion made them breathless they simply held each other, her head tucked in under his chin, the soft gold of his beard mingling with her darkness.

Raising his head Boromir gazed down at the beauty before him.  With one rough, square hand he brushed aside her hair now disarrayed from his caresses.  Here was no unschooled maid or restless woman.  Here for the first time Boromir found himself holding a lover truly capable of being his partner, whose experience at love far outdistanced his own indeed by lifetimes.

"Lady …"  he searched for words though an Elven hand stole up to hush him.

"No," Naimé murmured.  "I am no lady tonight, and you no lord.  We are but two creatures seeking joy in one another" she breathed; "great joy."

So saying she rose to join her kiss with his again even as Boromir surrounded her completely in his strong arms.  Now there was nothing between them but curséd cloth and soon that, too, was gone.

Relinquishing her exploration of the Man's broad, long back Naimë's clever hands rapidly undid the clasps of his heavy leather vest, pausing for long moments to caress his full chest, rounded shoulders, powerful arms as she pushed it off him to the floor.  In rapid succession his embroidered crimson tunic and woven undershirt with its chain mail cuffs soon followed.  Then she had him naked to the waist and open to her touch and gaze.

Boromir was unlike any man she had ever been with.  Not of Elven kind he felt more solid to her hands, his muscles massed and ready beneath his skin, flesh hotter and thicker and covered with a course hair that showed gold and auburn.  His smell was sharp in her nostrils, rich as leather and irresistible to her; she brushed her cheek, her face against and along his beard again and again, kissed and licked his corded neck, threaded her fingers over his chest to tangle in the hair of his stomach rippling under her touch.

Then she grew more bold.  Smiling enticingly, she circled his waist to hold him to her while pale fingers danced along the hem of his pants between them.  Then she dropped that hand to swim over the tell-tale swell urging toward her through the worn leather.  Even here he was more substantial, more corporeal than any Elven male.  At the thought of being one with him Naimë clasped Boromir through the cloth and almost moaned at his sounds of pleasure.  She glanced up to see find his head thrown back, hair falling over his shoulder, and green eyes watching her.  Encouraged, she pressed her hand fully along his length, greater than her hand, and caressed him.  Soon he was rocking himself into her flexing fingers, his own hands blindly stroking her back, her hair, pressing her body to him.

But in a moment more Boromir released her and gently pushed Naimë away.   He shook his head, leontine, and began to move away from her.

"O not yet, Little Bird; not yet."

Naimë laughed lightly at the endearment of her name even as Boromir moved back to the little table.  Refilling both cups he took a few calming breaths of the crisp night air.  Then he raised his glass and drank.

Across the floor Naimë's keen Elven eyes took in every detail – the way he leaned cooly against the rail – one booted ankle crossed over the other – belying the heat she had felt in his flesh.  Even under the silver moon he was golden, light and shadow turning his honey hair to flaxen wheat and his beard to soft mystery.  Moonlight bathed his broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and chest; from under shadow stout ribs seemed to embrace his abdomen and a trail of fair hair guided her eyes to the deep indentation of his navel and the softer flesh surrounding it not even a soldier's life could erase.  

"He is truly a prince among Men," she thought.  She longed to cross the floor to him, let her hands, her tongue, take again what now he gave only to her eyes.  She took him in in a moment, knowing his image would live in her forever.

Boromir's eyes, dark with desire, met hers again over the rim.  Lowering it measuredly, he gestured to her with his cup.  "Now, shed your feathers for me, Little Bird."

His voice, thick with passion, rumbled across the air to her like distant thunder and Naimë answered it with a lightening laugh.  Then a tremor ran across her skin.  All of a sudden she felt like a little girl who, thinking she has befriended a lost kitten, discovers she has brought a hungry lion home to play.  She smiled in acceptance of the delicious challenge she had brought herself and slowly, unhurriedly, turned her back on him.

In the dark of the room Naimë almost disappeared to Boromir's sight.  Then one white hand, bright in the dimness, appeared around her waist and fluttered up under the midnight fall of her hair.  Almost holding his breath the sound of secret clasps unclasping came to Boromir's expectant ears.  Then that nimble hand reappeared, fingers weaving into the darkness of her dress and returning, to descend just to the level of her hip.  At last Naimé let her hand fall back to her side and, for what seemed an endless moment to the watching Boromir, nothing happened.  Then, with a flutter and a sigh the great midnight gown melted into a pool at the Elf maid's feet.

Boromir's breath stopped.  

Clothed now in only a thin veil of sparkling cloth the perfection of Naimë's form was startlingly clear to Boromir.  He stood mesmerized by her delicate feet naked and vulnerable against the bare floor, her long slender calves that belled only slightly before rising up to full, tender thighs which, where they met, conspired with her lean but curvaceous rear to hide a treasure Boromir could only guess at.  Then, further, gentle hips yielded to a slender waist before all else was hidden under the midnight fall of her raven hair.  In contrast, her pale skin shone in the darkness and appeared without mark or blemish.  Naimë was unlike any mortal woman he had ever seen:  the Elf was all slender verticality, all lithe length.  Boromir couldn't believe he'd ever mistaken her gender, she was as unlike to a man as she could be.

Toeing off his boots the Steward's Son now quit his post by the balcony rail and entered into the dark of the room.  He approached her from behind almost silently; feeling her start slightly as he gently gathered up her hair and draped it over one sloping shoulder.

Keeping only scant inches between them, feeling her body yield almost imperceptibly to his, Boromir bent and tasted her skin.  Over the taut tendons of Naimë's neck, her shoulders, her spine went his lips, his tongue, while his hands made their presence known undemandingly at her hips.  Her skin was cool and tasted to Boromir like rain in August, promising relief to his own heated flesh.  He continued to caress her with his mouth as he began to finger the gauzy material of her slip.  Slowly, slowly, he gathered it up and, when he felt the hem slip into his palm, let it accompany him as he slid his hands over her belly, over her ribs, her breasts and the length of her arms raised to the sky for him.  In a moment the flimsy thing had joined her gown on the floor.

Only then did he pull her back against him and, as she molded her body to his, bend and take her in his arms.  Boromir carried Naimë over to his bed and gently laid her body upon it, but he did not join her.  He stood back and let his eyes roam freely over her body, pale and numinous in the darkness, shining in contrast to her dark hair and adorned only by her moonstone eyes and lips sparkling with moisture.  Then he swiftly stripped off his trousers and joined her.

Freely now they explored each other with eyes, hands and mouths, flush with the first full contact of skin to skin.  But just as Boromir was raising one ivory thigh with his knee a thought occurred to him.  He lifted his head from Naimë's breast and settled himself over her.

"Tell me, Little Bird, is this permitted?  Elves cavorting with Men?"  He smiled teasingly but his green eyes showed concern.

"Hmmmm …" Naimë seemed to consider her lover's question, and then with a broad smile raised her thigh up over his hip to bring them into intimate contact.  "Cavorting.  Is that what you call it?"  She rolled the word about in her mouth teasingly.   "Cavorting…"

Stifling a groan Boromir caught her chin in one hand and caught her eyes in his.  "Naimë … I simply meant – "

But her cascading laugh cut him off until he could do nothing but join her.  Then their laughter rang together like wind in the trees, each giving voice to the other.  But a shadow fell fleetingly across Naimë's face.  She reached up one long hand and caressed his beard, his brow, his hair and frowned slightly.  "It is true two of our fairest maids could be said to have fallen under the spell of Mortal Man, to the sadness of many."

Now it was Boromir's turn to cheer Naimë.  He tenderly kissed her trailing fingers and, when she smiled again, asked smugly  "Maids?  None of your Elvish men have been beguiled by the whiles of mortal women? for I can tell you from experience they are considerable …"

Naimë shared his jest, answering "Well, none that I have heard tell of, but then I doubt our union, sweet though it will be," she raised her head and kissed him lightly; "will find its way into recorded history."

"Oh, it will, Love, it will."  So saying Boromir bent his head and captured Naimë's mouth again, He pressed his lips almost roughly against hers and then, at once, thrust his tongue between her lips and his erect cock between her legs letting her feel the extent of his desire and the full weight of his intention.  Naimë gasped into her lover's mouth excitedly; during their play he seemed to have grown impossibly fuller.  She wrapped her arms around him tightly in anticipation only to have Boromir suddenly break their embrace, saying:

"Still, I am glad to hear all the advantage is on my side."

But just as suddenly Boromir found himself on his back, Naimë sitting astride his hips and pressing his cock beneath her and smiling smugly.  "Not all the advantage!"

Boromir jackknifed instantly and, after a momentary tussle, captured Naimë's hands in his.  Then the soldier forcefully embraced his captive, pulling her hands in his behind her back.  He kissed her with a hungry, open mouth and, as their kiss melted again into mutual pleasure loosened his hold.  After a few moments he pulled back and, pressing his forehead tenderly to hers, captured her gaze instead.  

"No more games."

"No more games."

*****************

They made love until the stars began to fade above them.  Then they lay together, silver and gold, murmuring quietly to one another, often laughing, or simply letting their hearts dance to the rhythm of the other's body for a time.  

When the light of day began to turn the leaves outside his room gray against a rosy sky Boromir rose silently to wash and dress.  He retrieved his clothes and Naimë's from where they had fallen and laid her dress atop the bed, not having the heart to wake her.

When all was readiness and there was nothing more, he stood beside the bed and just watched her as she slept.  One errant lock of hair had fallen across her eyes.  Now it lifted and fell with each breath his Elven lover took and made the Warrior smile.

Naimë was the first he had ever been with that had treated him like a man – not a man of privilege and power to be serviced and flattered, but a man of heart, sinew and spirit – a man to be partnered.  And in their love-making she had given of herself freely, and given him a night the thought of which would keep any soldier warm in battle for a lifetime.

At the same time Naimë had been like every other woman he had ever been with, only more so.  Her skin was so soft and pale yet firm and vibrant to his hand.  Her spirit, so reserved in all else but mirth after the fashion of her kind, was set free by their desire for each other.  And her body, so long, lean and cool had yielded to him generously and had drawn him into a slick grasping core stoked to a ready flame.  Closing his eyes, Boromir remembered how hers had widened as he entered her, and then closed again as she was almost undone by the feeling of him ensheathed in her completely.  It had been her deep, elongated release had finally brought him his.

He opened his eyes again as she stirred.  Although he was no stranger to leaving for battle with a woman in his bed, Boromir knew he could not leave Naimë to wake to an empty room.  Gently, he brushed the wayward lock back into place, and then traced the side of her sculpted face.  Her gray eyes fluttered and opened.

But Boromir found there were no words.  He bent, pressed his lips to hers for a long moment, and was gone.


End file.
